


A Bit of Madness

by dementedsiren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementedsiren/pseuds/dementedsiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s being mad, and then there’s madness. Ron’s experienced both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Madness

Oliver was at Harry’s flat again. Ron could tell by the two-toned laugh coming from inside and the light in the bedroom window.

Oliver was at Harry’s again and Harry had forgotten he’d told Ron to visit because when Ron knocks on the door, hoping that Harry had just invited the other man along for a beer, he hears a familiar voice whisper “be quiet and they’ll go away.”

Ron can remember days when he and Harry used to laugh like that. Chocolate flavoured summers filled with gnomes and brooms and annoying little sisters. Blindingly hot days that were too cold and cool nights that were warm and sweaty and filled with muffled groans.

Ron wonders if Harry and Oliver are groaning now. He wonders if Harry makes the same little pleading cry right before he comes. He wonders if Oliver notices. He wonders if he’s going mad.

Because only mad people stand outside their _lovercoworkerfriend’s _door after dark in the, a hand pressed against the door and an aching sense of knowledge in their heart. Right?__

Right?

He hears something shatter inside, followed by a high pitched cry, and closes his eyes. Oliver had always had such a nancy voice, despite all of his Quidditch-toned masculinity.

Only mad people would climb over their friend’s hedges to peer into windows back-lit by the glow of hastily muttered Lumoses cast by discarded wands.

Ron thinks he must be mad.

He knows he’s furious, watching thighs press against thighs through the carelessly drawn drapery. Harry is below Oliver, who is twitching his hips like he’s running a marathon. Ron can remember the feeling of being inside Harry and it is nothing like a marathon – it's bliss and peace and unadulterated need. There was no race to the finish.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Ron hadn’t been competitive enough for Harry. It would explain a lot.

But Ron doesn’t want to think about that now, so instead he thinks about Oliver’s hand clutching the kinked locks of Harry’s hair. He thinks about Harry liking it, the pain and the impact of sensation above and beyond arousal sobering him in the way that only it could.

Harry liked pain. He liked burns and bites and slaps and bruises. He liked whoever made them to kiss them away once they were done. Ron had kissed and kissed and kissed, and when the marks were gone and Harry had fallen back asleep, Ron still saw black, blue and red behind his eyelids. He still does.

Harry keens and Ron reaches down to run a palm across the bulge in his trousers. The movement exposes his fingers to the biting cold of the rain and he shivers convulsively, teeth clenching together to keep back all sound because he only wants to listen. Harry cries out, Ron presses his hand down. Harry gasps, Ron strokes. Oliver moans, Ron squeezes himself so hard it hurts.

He must be mad. He’s jerking himself off watching his best friend being fucked by someone else. Oliver is fucking Harry.

Ron pulls down his zip and reaches into his pants.

His hips twitch, arousal growing into a sharp prick of pre-orgasmic need as Harry lifts his heels and wraps them over Oliver’s shoulders. Perhaps it isn’t so bad being mad after all, watching this and hating it. And maybe Ron likes pain too because when Harry tenses and comes with a screamed string of endearments bearing Oliver’s name, Ron comes too.

Except all he says is “Harry.” Or maybe, “No.”

He’s close enough to the window that his breath leaves a grey mist on the glass. His feet are sinking into mulched wood and mud, his trousers are soaked through, and his hand his numb and covered in come.

Ron feels droplets of water slide down the back of his neck and they distract him from the ones sliding down his face.

Oliver wraps Harry in his arms and licks his neck with a smile. Harry smiles. Ron smiles, too, because in his mind’s eye he imagines Oliver as an impotent husk whose funeral no one attends.

It’s uncharitable.

It’s mad.

Ron is fucking mad as hell.

He writes the words “I hate you,” into the mist on the window and rezips his trousers. His prick is cold against his leg.

He wants to write the words again because he doesn’t think they’re true and he wants them to be.

Instead, Ron climbs back over the shrubbery and knocks on the door again. This time, after a few tense moments and a loud “Hold on!”, it opens and Harry is there, completely clean and dressed as neatly as he ever is.

Ron had forgotten about personal cleaning charms. He probably looks a right mess to Harry. He doesn’t care.

“Ron, mate, what are you doing out here? You’re soaked!”

Taking it as an invitation, Ron pushes into the entryway and stares at Harry with blank eyes. His coat is dripping on the floor. His shoes squelch mud onto the flower patterned rug. He hopes the stains never come out.

“Ron, are you okay? Why are you…. damn, tonight’s game night. Damn.”

Oliver chooses this moment to join them. Ron continues to look at Harry. Oliver sighs.

“Sorry, Ron. I must’ve distracted Harry with all my Quidditch talk. The game’s so exciting, if the Magpies win they’re going to the Cup semi-finals, and I must have gone off for a bit…”

Ron nods, blood flowing back into his face. It probably looks like he’s recovering from a chill, but he knows better.

Harry shoots a look first at Ron, then at Oliver. When he looks towards Oliver, Harry’s eyes are filled with thanks and relief. Disaster averted yet again. Harry lives to see another day.

Suddenly, Ron smiles. It’s all so familiar. He should have expected it.

“Nah, it’s okay Harry. I thought it’d be refreshing to walk in the rain a bit.”

Oliver laughs.

“Damn, Ron. You thought it’d be refreshing? You’re mad, man!”

Ron looks from Harry to the window and back again. He nods.

“I am.”


End file.
